


Little Things

by ptrkls



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romantic Friendship, patrochilles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptrkls/pseuds/ptrkls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In general, Achilles is usually easy to read, at least to Patroclus, he is. His eyes narrow, he chews his lip, a fraction of his smile disappears—it’s the little things. And how could he be a good best friend without noticing them?</p><p>That’s what he thinks they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Things

It's a rare occasion when there's something off about him that Patroclus can't place.

In general, Achilles is usually easy to read, at least to Patroclus, he is. His eyes narrow, he chews his lip, a fraction of his smile disappears—it’s the little things. And how could he be a good best friend without noticing them?

That’s what he thinks they are.

Within the span of two months, the two became inseparable. Summer days were spent virtually roaming the town and doing whatever they saw fit; grabbing ice cream, doing cartwheels on the football field long forgotten without school in session, watching the sunset and occasionally the sunrise, going to parks, picking figs from the trees planted deeper in the parks. Briseis and Automedon accompany them, but there are always moments between just the two. A shared glance, a shared soda, falling on top of each other after cartwheels gone awry. Their other two friends don’t care for figs. 

Patroclus knows they are each other’s very best friends, which was, at one point, all he wished for. But that was before he felt the heat of Achilles’s skin on his, his more muscled legs spread across his waist. A different kind of heat spreads through Patroclus’s body. The chance of Achilles failing anything has always been very slim, and Patroclus is thankful he isn’t the best at cartwheels.

And next, as with every time he recalls this, something races through his mind. The slim, sparse, slight possibility that Achilles may feel the same way.

Then, Patroclus remembers the fact that Achilles has had a girlfriend before. Deidameia. One of most gorgeous and desired in the school. His smile fades.

~

Briseis walks to Patroclus’s apartment building at 9:30 A.M. Truthfully, it’s an orphanage, but she pretends not to notice. She's in a black romper; not an outfit for the first day of school, but one for orientation. She fiddles through the contents of her cross-body purse until he comes down.

“Hey,” Patroclus says, flinching as the gate creaks to a close behind him.

Briseis removes her earbuds. "Hi. Nice shirt." All she knows is that it’s from some fandom. There is pair of dice emblazoned over his breast. 

She’s the only thing that could ever make Patroclus feel guilty about calling Achilles his best friend, because he loves her just as much. Their conversation has spanned at least seven different topics yet it only feels like a minute has passed when Automedon’s car pulls up.

Briseis is surprised when Patroclus climbs in the back, because he’s Automedon’s closest friend, he should sit beside him. Not that this kind of situation is uncommon. Whenever the four have to break into smaller groups, Patroclus and Achilles never fail to choose each other, and she’s stuck with him. 

“We’re going to be late,” Patroclus murmurs at 9:45. “It starts at ten, you know.”

Automedon huffs. He thinks the same. “I don’t know where Achilles’s mom’s house is. I’m trying to follow the GPS but—do you know where it is?”

When Briseis doesn’t stop drumming her fingers on the dashboard and Automedon glances at him through the rearview, Patroclus realizes they expect him to have the answer.

“No,” he blurts uncomfortably. “Why would I?”

“Okay.” Automedon stops the car. “I’ll call him then.” He sounds breathless.

Patroclus sees that Automedon’s anxiety is kicking in and regrets what he hastily said earlier. “Wait. I do know where it is—kind of. Down Nereus Road, I think.”

It’s definitely a stretch from his dad’s house, where the four usually hang out at, with a driveway and wraparound porch and the interior—oh, the interior. This house looks to be barely two stories, and Patroclus can see two windows near the ground that signify a basement. It’s clean, though. There’s no peeling paint, all the windows are without dust and framed with expensive blue curtains, the plants outside are well groomed. 

“Are you sure this is it?” Automedon asks after a stretch of silence.

“Yes. Yeah. It should be. I’m pretty sure I saw the pool in the backyard—”

Briseis’s head whips around. Her coffee eyes focus on Patroclus’s. “How would you know there’s a pool? You’ve been here before? In the pool?”

“Um, yeah. Like, a few weeks ago.”

She glances at Automedon, who’s pulling on the black thread of his cardigan, and then back at Patroclus before turning around. “I didn’t see it in the group chat. And I didn’t know you swam. You never come to my pool," she finally adds.

Patroclus knows what she means is “Why weren’t we invited?” He can’t find an answer. All he can say is “I’m, um, going to get Achilles. Yeah.”

He’s sweating by the time he gets to the top of the five stone steps. Most of it is from that encounter. He rings the doorbell and is answered almost immediately.

It’s Achilles, with a crown of messy golden curls and wearing a sweatshirt and—pretty tight, short—shorts, Patroclus notes. His white socks are in slides. The entire outfit is from track. Both smile at the sight of each other.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You’re sweating.” Achilles wipes Patroclus’s forehead with his sleeve. “That happens a lot.”

Patroclus laughs. “Thanks for pointing that out. Just like how you tend to—”

“Achilles, who’s this?”

Patroclus can’t help but start sweating again when he notices the icy gaze that has landed on him. There's a woman; middle aged, clear skin, cascading black hair, harsh blue eyes. Briseis’s mother, father, and sisters all smiled when they met him. She does not.

“Patroclus, Mom. He’s my friend.” Achilles glances back confidently.

“Er, nice to meet you, Mrs. Pelides,” Patroclus offers sheepishly.

“Call me Thetis,” the woman instructs, holding her chin in those claws for fingers. It’s a commandment, not an offer of kindness. _Right_ , Patroclus reminds himself. She isn't a Pelides anymore. 

Patroclus remembers that she wasn’t home when he came for the pool. Maybe Achilles meant it this way. He only nods. It feels better not to speak.

“Are you driving?” questions Thetis. She sounds concerned, but in the _are-you-going-to-kill-my-son_ way rather the _don’t-forget-to-get-gas way_.

“No!—ahem, no. Our frie—Automedon is.” Patroclus gestures to the mustang parked outside.

Thetis’s heels clack on hardwood as she advances to the doorway, but Achilles is faster. He steps in front of her, obstructing her view. “We’re late. We have to go.” He kisses her on the cheek. With Achilles’s lean physique, he should be taller than her, but he isn’t. Her height is unnatural for a woman of her age. Maybe that’s where Achilles gets his build from. 

“Come on, Pat.” Achilles grabs the doorknob and slips out of the house, closing the door behind him. His and Patroclus’s hands touch in the midst. Patroclus knows Thetis noticed. He feels colder.

“Ugh. I’m sorry.” Achilles looks Patroclus in the eye, who stands amazed at his genuineness. “She can be overprotective. But parents, you gotta love them, I guess. Wait, no, _fuck_ , I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry, Pat, I just—”

Patroclus’s instinct is to chuckle awkwardly and shrug. “It’s okay. I did have parents, you know, and the foster mom is—“ He stops when he sees Achilles’s head turned, glistening green eyes gazing into his. What he’s about to say is the default speech about the “benefits” of being an orphan, always used to console his company rather than himself. It isn’t a lie, but not the truth. And he can’t say anything but the truth with Achilles.

“Whatever. It’s okay,” he changes the subject. “What are you wearing?”

“I wasn’t planning on staying with her and that jackass Pyrrhus last night, and this was all I had there. Divorced parents aren’t so great. It’s so—” They reach the car. Briseis and Automedon both give cheerful greetings. “I’ll tell you about it when we’re—um—alone.”

They get into the car using the same door, and don’t slide to the designated seats. Patroclus has the window and Achilles is without a seatbelt in the middle, leaning towards his best friend.

During a turn, Briseis looks back at them. Achilles’s head is on Patroclus’s shoulder, arm messily across his waist. He shows no interest in moving. Patroclus flushes at Briseis’s gawking and stares resolutely out the window. Achilles notices and uprights himself, muttering something about the “sharp” turn.

~

They’re late, and are instructed to sit in the adjoining cafeteria for the orientation, as all the seats in the auditorium are taken. They know the others at their table, but only exchange a few nods, mostly to and from Achilles. Agamemnon doesn’t look up from his arm wrestle with Ajax nor Menelaus from the lips of Helen until varsity jackets are mentioned. Diomedes and Odysseus are further down and laughing about something no one else finds funny. Automedon looks as if he’s in pain. Briseis’s head is down.

Achilles and Patroclus sit side to side, hips jutted outward so they face each other. They haven’t stopped talking, looking, laughing once, and Patroclus can’t help but notice how many times Achilles has touched him. He’s an animated speaker. While ranting about his mom and how much he prefers to stay at his dad’s, his hand rests on Patroclus’s thigh.

~

“Hey, guys. It’s over. Let’s go,” Automedon says. 

Briseis jerks up at the sound of Automedon’s car keys being scraped across the table and into his hands. “I wasn’t sleeping,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

Diomedes, Odysseus, and Ajax aren’t in sight. Agamemnon appears to take a last glance at Briseis, licking his lips before walking out the door. The only others are Menelaus and Helen, on top of each other and unabashedly moaning.

“Ugh. Maybe that’s why everyone cleared out so quickly,” Briseis gags. Her eyes roll as far back as possible when she realizes Achilles isn’t listening (ok, fair) and neither is Patroclus. “Sorry, do you guys need a moment, or a room?”

Patroclus’s face falls fractionally. On any other occasion, he would redden and spit an excuse, but Achilles is with him now. He feels at ease. “Oh. Sorry.” 

“Alright, so what do you want to do next?” asks Automedon. “The movie theatre is showing that really good action movie about—”

“Automedon, you don’t have to drive us home.” Achilles indicates who “us” is by throwing an arm around Patroclus’s shoulder. It slips down his back. “We’re hanging out.”

The driver’s eyes flit between the two. “Um, okay, what do you have in mind?”

“Just us,” Achilles clarifies. “Sorry.” He brings his hand around Patroclus’s waist, slides it under his shirt, and subconsciously rubs his thumb around his side. “You want to, right?” 

“Yes!—ahem—yeah. Definitely,” says Patroclus. “We always hang out, all four of us. We can change it up sometimes, right guys?” Coming from Patroclus, it’s an actual question.

“Well yeah, for sure,” Automedon stutters. “But, how are you going to get home? We drove here.”

“We’ll walk,” says Achilles assuredly. “No, don’t look at me like that, I’m on the track team, and worst case scenario, I can carry Pat on my back.”

“Oh, great,” adds Patroclus sarcastically. But he’s smiling.

Achilles grins wider. Patroclus could stare at him forever, full, pink lips upturned and perfectly straight teeth revealed. Brighter than the sun. Next to Achilles, the sun is nothing but a ball of gas he wouldn't miss if it exploded.

They rise. “Okay. Bye guys.” Achilles turns around without a backwards glance.

“Briseis, I’ll text you. Automedon, thanks for the ride and I’ll see you on—” Patroclus’s goodbyes are cut short when Achilles takes hold of his waist and pulls him around the corner, out of sight.

Briseis laughs without humor and folds her arms. “Patroclus is lucky. I wish I had a boyfriend like that.”

That’s what they are.


End file.
